Friends with a Fairy Mortician
by Be3
Summary: The events of The Totally Unreal Diary of a Fairy Mortician through the eyes of other people.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: the events of The Totally Unreal Diary of the Fairy Mortician through the eyes of other people. AU, loosely based on the episodes (I don't want to write about prions, for example, because actually this situation would have been _unbelievably dangerous_ and I don't like the cavalier treatment it got on the show, so I'll just pass them by.)

 *********FOREVER*********

'This is our break room. And this is our Dr. Washington,' said Mrs. Spinner with a slightly awkward smile.

Dr. Henry Morgan's skill of noticing and retaining small details of his environment was well-honed to the point of being exceptional. It was the honest truth, and while his attention span was slightly longer than average _maybe_ due to favourable genetics, the work he invested into near-constant observation was all his to claim.

By Spinner's hastily straightened back, hands held nearer to her sides, and a tiny increase in the angle at which she leaned away from the other man he thought that she didn't like Washington much, at least at the moment.

As far as he was concerned, one could hide truth from others, but being deliberately unaware of it was asking for trouble. And trouble, Henry knew, might be slow in coming...but it always delivered. Henry Morgan, freshly minted Medical Examiner and immortal creature with two hundred thirty five years of experience, shook hands with his superior.

'Pleased to meet you.'

'Hello, hello,' Washington mumbled, just this side of polite. He blinked at Henry's suit, and his mouth twisted in a series of masticating movements, but he refrained from commenting on the matter. 'Ann, you may go, I will show Dr. Morgan around. Bring me what you have on Jane Doe from the playground.'

Spinner nodded, smiled to Henry – this one reached her eyes – and left, shoulders slumping a little.

'I've seen your credentials,' Washington told him. He waved at the coffee machine, but Henry declined, and they went out into the morgue proper. 'Why do you think you're qualified to work with dead people?'

And it should have been insulting, but Henry understood him only too well. He'd met doctors who were brilliant care-takers, but rubbish at post-mortems. Lately, diversification let most people occupy a niche to their liking, and a medical examiner was far enough from the typical image of a healer that many considered the profession entirely divorced from 'medicine'. Washington, who probably had never had to treat anybody alive, likely had opposite reservations.

'I always felt an inclination to study anatomy,' he answered carefully. 'Not the most exciting field, if one counts recent discoveries, but...'

'Oh I know what you mean,' the other put in with vehemence. 'Applied discipline! Dead science! Pfft. Science is only as dead as you judge it to be.'

Henry bit his lip and looked down. The truly ironic thing was that this was true, if unfortunately worded.

'And this job makes a difference,' Washington intoned, the spark of feeling going out of his voice. 'The people upstairs cannot build their cases without good old data. Much as they try to. Conjecture artists, I call them.'

 _Probably to their faces_ , Henry thought, to give credit where credit was due. The man didn't lack in sheer presence.

'It's not always their fault,' Washington admitted grudgingly. 'Our toxicology lab leaves much to be desired. You will see. Understaffed and doing nothing about it! You don't have any training in that area, by any chance?'

'Ahh...' Henry swallowed down his panic. 'Only sample preparation and the like...'

It was one thing to learn the effects of many toxins by first-hand experience. It was a completely different thing to operate gas chromatographers coupled with mass spectrometers. Reading journals could only help so much.

Luckily for him, Washington couldn't reasonably expect anything different. Unluckily, he was going to have these same problems with the lab as everybody else, and Henry hated not knowing when the only constraint preventing him from finding the answer was time. But 'time' here was never a constraint, by itself; it meant somebody's forced separation from family or hobby, and he could not, in good faith, demand from mortals that they abandon their values to run another test or question the results of a previous one.

'You've met Ann,' Washington went on. 'Here's Nina Blake, our main histologist, when we have the leisure of specialization, which is seldom, so don't count on it. Gregory Hops – more-or-less technician, in that he knows whom to call when your microscope light stops shining. At least you don't fix it yourself, do you, Gregory?.. Bill Walker – medical examiner, but he's on holiday until tomorrow,' this with a growling undercurrent, 'and Lucas Wahl. _Ahem_. Wahl! Come here.'

Henry, who had been exchanging half bows and friendly waves with his new colleagues (and ignoring their amazement at his clothes), turned to greet a tall young man in scrubs, who was grinning at him unabashedly.

'Pleased to meet you,' said Wahl, and he did look pleased – and so curious he was twitching.

'Show him the paperwork,' Washington ordered, and without further ado shuffled off to his office.

'So!' Wahl said brightly. 'First day here, eh?'

'Indeed,' replied Henry warily. They entered the small room designated as his office. The décor was utterly bland and impersonal, but he would see about that with time. 'If I may, the vacancy seems somewhat unexpected?'

What he meant was 'why are _you_ showing me the paperwork and not the person who was doing it before? You don't look like that person,' but caught himself at the last moment.

Abe had made a big fuss about it just that morning.

Wahl's earnest expression drooped into shiftiness, and he gently shut the door behind him. 'That's because it was unexpected,' he confessed in a loud whisper, hugging himself. 'Dr. Fromm very unexpectedly found antibodies to the Black Death.'

'The Black Death!' Goodness! He'd won big, if they had any cause to check for such outrageous illnesses.

'Umm, worst part is... he found 'em in a DNA sample.'

So much for winning big.

'Ran in shouting about his find, and poof, ten minutes later he's not the Assistant Chief anymore.' Wahl sounded sorry for the man. 'Also they say he's much better already. I mean, gotta be good at finger-painting if you suck at finger-printing, yeah?'

Henry could only nod.

'So, here are the forms,' Wahl prattled on, uncurling his long arms from around his trunk and coming to the table. The ugly plastic table. Henry swore to himself he'd bring his own desk. 'You will need to check in with Lorraine upstairs...and they insist on block letters, man, you should have read Fromm's chicken scrawl, betcha they had to send his reports to _China_ just to stuff them into correct drawers, I sure hope your handwriting is better, 'cause Washington's gonna send me upstairs again for oral presentations, and I'm not a pigeon, actually, wow, that's complicated, but lookie here – no, it's complicated, too – '

Henry Morgan sat down, pulled the haphazardly piled print-outs to himself, and tried to concentrate.


	2. Chapter 2

They called Nina pedantic behind her back, and maybe other things, but in her line of work one had to either adhere to the rules, or move aside and stop being in the way.

Histology did not forgive mistakes.

There were no smart deviations from accepted techniques. Or, to be more precise, there were lots, but unless one proved their smartness and pushed for them to be the new standards, one followed the protocol. One thousand samples. Two thousand. Nina was patient, jotting down notes on the so-called 'ambient conditions' – when the slide had to be left 'at room temperature', and the air-con was broken, and it was the middle of July, then shockingly, exposure time might be shorter than around Christmas. Year after year, she perfected her preparations, until they became uniformly decent – the kind of _decent_ where one doesn't notice the evenness of staining or the lack of unfiltered 'muck' in the picture. The purity of the unadulterated signal.

She knew the quality of her work.

Chemistry's stance on mistakes was largely similar to histology's, and when Nina deciphered the date of expiry (long gone) on a bottle of solvent, she saw red. Wahl was going to pay for this. It was his duty to keep track of their stock. She had no intention of going out in a blaze of glory, victim to an explosion which might came at any moment, if peroxides had formed inside; it was unlikely, but still possible, and this kind of sloppiness was unforgivable in forensics.

She stood up, putting the bottle back with great care, and looked around until she spotted him off to the side, with Washington and that newcomer, Morgan. Wahl's face was red, and he was staring straight ahead, soldier-like. Small wonder, if Washington was doing the talking (and punctuating his sentences by thumping what looked like an autopsy report against the edge of a slab.) Morgan looked impassive, slightly impatient to get on with his day, but then, he was so clearly _British_. Nina pressed her lips together.

She did not wish the Assistant Chief Medical Examiner to think ill of the whole lab, but neither did she want to use subpar reagents for the simple reason that somebody couldn't read. (Also, she might be 'pedantic', but Washie took it to a whole 'nother level; he might fire Wahl over this, and while the man irritated her with his unending chatter, and certainly organic peroxides were no small matter, she acknowledged the rarity of having someone so – light-hearted in the morgue.) It was time to improvise.

Nina went to the break room and made a call, and then strutted back in. 'Mr. Wahl? May I have a minute?'

'Yes!' he cried, almost breaking into a jog. 'How can I help you?'

Washie huffed in irritation, but the phone in Morgan's office rang, and Morgan excused himself. She directed her hapless colleague to the row of chemicals, citing a surprise inspection of which her friend upstairs warned her – a big favour! – and indulged in a little boss-watching while the boy all but hid in the smelly cupboard. Ha. Washie had already zeroed in on their technician – poor Greg, he was only soldering a wire, it wasn't like he'd made an attempt at a camera or something – and was chewing him out. Still, Gregory was inoculated against the critic, it was just another thing you picked up with time.

'Oh,' Wahl said abruptly. 'What's this? I'm sorry, Mrs. Blake, I will order a batch immediately, and have this removed.'

'I would be much obliged,' she murmured. 'In fact, when you finish the inventory, take a look at the fire escape – I think Walker made it unpassable with his fishing lines again.'

Bill Walker was a romantic. He never went fishing, but once in a few months he would moan and groan and swear that _this_ Friday, he was going to the river right after hours. But that was tame, for an M.E. Fromm, for exaple, cooked roadkill, which was all fine by her, although the day he invited them for a BBQ she embraced vegetarianism. Idly, she wondered if the new guy had any liking for water – maybe Walker only needed a teammate.

'Fire escape!' Wahl's eyes lit up.

Well. Nina Blake might be an old stickler to the rules, but she appreciated enthusiasm in the younger generation. One had to learn to recognize and support it; simply holding a position of power didn't grant you this skill.

She hoped, for everybody's sake, that the Englishman had some idea about treating subordinates properly. Otherwise, she might have to re-route Wahl towards the more delicate job of differential tissue dyeing, in which he so far hadn't expressed an interest. Nina grinned ruefully. When one attained a level of competency, one began to wish for a student. Perhaps...she would not mind if Henry Morgan turned out to be a bore and a tyrant...

Something made her turn around, and she met his eyes through the glass.

He was smiling.

 _Do your worst_ , thought Nina and sat down at her own table. She had several slides to go through before she could call it a day. _The hunt is on, anatomy-man._

Poor Wahl, he'd never know what hit him.


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter is unlike the previous ones and **WARNING: might offend people (although I cannot express the exact point);** adding the h/c category. Also, not sure about grammar in some places.

To KenH: I actually like writing Washington. I think of him as a belligerent, cynical old dog, who doesn't like to learn new tricks, but is capable of doing right by his people as long as that doesn't keep him from supper. Maybe sentimental at times. A superb character, something from O'Henry.

And thank you all, you lovely people who leave reviews!

Mr. Bill Walker was sad.

But it was all right. It happened often. Fact of life. He wasn't _sad_ about being sad.

'Hi everybody,' said Bill, striding to his desk.

Nina waved, not looking up from her microscope. Greg didn't notice, he was cursing at a scheme of some gizmo nobody could ever need for an autopsy, a wise choice, really, old Washie couldn't find fault in it, and Greg had an affinity for harmless toys.

Young Lucas, junior vampire, greeted him from behind a slab, and Bill chartered his course over to him.

'Who comes to us?' asked he, peering down at the unmoving features.

'No ID,' said Lucas, which conveyed 'no idea' without information loss.

'In the prime of her life,' observed Bill. 'Such beauty! Is she mine?'

'All yours, Doctor.'

Lucas was polite, calling him 'Doctor'. Bill gulped. Some men became emotional when drunk, while for him it was the other way around; but Washie didn't tolerate intoxicated employees.

Then again, it meant that Washie didn't come to parties. The good of the many outweighed the good of the one.

Bill saw the frozen face, and buckled, and shucked off layers of negotiating with fate.

He checked his tools and set to it, enunciating observations clearly for the recorder. Never could reconcile himself to the impartiality of policemen, who could pop in for an update on a case and walk away pleased by a natural death. Goddammit, what was he even doing there, this was for people who could distance themselves.

But he was _not half bad_ at it. That was the thing, he could be out selling hot dogs, but he stayed and earned more than he needed to live and sent the money to a charity half the world away.

They were silent, except for taking notes on the process. He found the brain haemorrage that had ended this life, and no sign of poison or trauma, and a wave of pity choke him and rooted him to the spot.

'By the way,' Lucas offered softly. 'It's Friday tomorrow, are you going to the river?'

The scalpel twitched in Bill's hand.

'I cannot,' he answered dully. 'I'm, I'm coming down with something.'

'Good afternoon, Dr. Walker,' came a crisp greeting. He hummed, still not certain of his voice. Wonderful, he didn't notice the Assistant Chief when he came in.

For a year already Bill kept expecting Dr. Morgan to take him to task for disrespect, and Dr. Morgan kept defying his expectations. But right then he could not muster any will to talk, because this grief, it was beyond mere sadness.

For as long as he could remember, his only wish was for someone, somewhere, not being subject to the rule of death, but Bill Walker was an adult and knew that nobody was immortal.

'Brain hemorrage,' reported Lucas. 'Sudden, but not – er, induced by somebody.'

Morgan glanced at them and cleared his throat.

'I am, as always, impressed by the thoroughness and dedication of your work,' he said evenly, and his words had to them a feel of a ritual sword, flashing in the sun.

'Thank you,' said Lucas for them both.

And the Assistant Chief Medical Examiner closed the locker into which they had sent the unknown woman, turned away, and went to the elevator.

'Uh,' said Lucas. 'Think he forgot something?'

'Like the 'but' part?' asked Bill, suddenly finding his tongue.

'Yeah. That part.'

'Da boss is a busy man,' Nina drawled, leaning back in her chair and blinking as her eyes adjusted to a change in focus. 'Got summoned by the brass, wanna keep communication to the pertinent.'

'Wait a minute,' Lucas interjected. 'Is this a hint? Because I can _so_ tell it's a hint, but, well, Dr. Walker probably doesn't, so, Dr. Walker, Mrs. Blake thinks you talk too much – '

'What?!' asked Nina and Greg together, just a tad too indignantly.

'But I'm all for it, _man_ , I love your singing voice – '

'My what?'

'And the rakish charm, it's all the rage, you know, the gleaming stage with the dancing girls in skimpy skirts, and the crowds chanting your name – '

'Lucas...' whispered Bill, aghast. 'Are you quite well?'

Greg was making piggish sounds with laughter. 'Oh – oh – oh I can't, Bill, you all in white, hugging the mike like it's, it's, sorry, let's say, _not_ a mike, oh I would ask you to sign a nap- _hic_ -kin – '

'And it will tear,' Nina jumped in. 'And you will _store_ it in a _safe_ , and sell it for a hundred grand – '

'No, wait!' Lucas raised a hand. 'Give it to the fanpage for _The Life of Billy Walker_ , they will make a super off it!'

For an insane moment, Bill saw himself – overweight, glasses askew, thin hair gelled into spikes, – screeching into a microphone on a classroom-sized stage. It was the single most ridiculous thing he could think of.

He snorted.

No, it was the single most inappropriate –

Nina stroked her chin and leered. 'A best-seller by the incomparable Annie Spinner.'

That did it. He could just imagine Ann scowling at the keyboard, trying to think of a bedroom _anything_ in connection with old Bill Walker. He cracked.

'WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?'

 _Damn_ , he thought hysterically, _Washie's joined my fanpage._

'I, I, I told a j-joke,' Lucas stuttered out. 'One for, for, the ages. Gotta write it dow-dow-down in my no-no-notebook.'

The Chief opened his mouth again, but suddenly, Lucas said 'oh,' and sat down, eyes round.

'What is it?' Washie asked, almost civilly.

'I have a _notebook_.'

Washie's cheek twitched.

'In my head,' Lucas explained. 'I've had it for a year, but I forgot about it.'

There was a pause. Greg closed his eyes in bliss. Nina opened hers widely.

Washie breathed in, then out, then there was a _ping_ , like a sound effect in a movie –

'Ah, Dr. Washington! I was looking for you. The Lieutenant is preparing a press conference, and tried to reach you by phone?'

 _God bless Henry Morgan_ , thought Bill, turning aside to cough and not look at Nina.

'And Dr. Walker, I think there are throat lozenges in the break room, in the cup beside the microwave oven – '

'Thank you!' He lowered his head and made a beeline for the exit.

Lozenges. Yes. Then he was going back to the lab and writing down his observations.

The thought sobered him, and his throat closed for a moment. But it passed.


	4. Chapter 4

Bill Walker was trying to nudge a test tube stopper that had rolled behind the radiator to come out in the open. Gregory was writing to his cousin about a baseball game he had to see last week (but missed, due to a long chain of reasons boiling down to 'I'm in bed and she's proud of it'), and Nina was counting drops of a stock solution falling into a waiting glassful of water, when Lucas Wahl came in, teeth chattering, and announced it was raining again.

It was not what any of them would have called 'good news'.

'But it had already rained a bath!' groaned Nina. 'Greg! Do something about the weather.'

'I like it.'

'You always do. I want my feet warm and dry when I go home.'

Nina had never got the hang of just chilling while her 'meats' 'marinated' (her words), and Greg was easy to boss around, but this time, he refused to play along and twisted to see the M. E.

'Hey, kid, looking blue there.'

At that, the other two stopped what they were doing and turned to look at the young man. Lucas grimaced.

'Maybe I'm a blue whale. Male blue mail whale. For sale.'

'But not hale,' Nina muttered. She rose. 'Take these out of the solution in twenty minutes and wash thrice with distilled water, to remove excess dye, then put them under the dish. I'm going up to play the sexy secretary, and Greg will fill in as the delivery boy.'

'Greg will?'

'Yes, dear, you are. Whatever bee got lost in Washie's bonnet this time, we can't lose our only millenial here, can we?' She pointed at the kid. 'Rest. Have a break. Billy, I'm setting the timer.'

'Sure,' he said. The stopper was beyond saving, might as well take care of the slides.

'Yes, Ma'am,' Lucas stretched and folded his scrubs.

Nina and Greg went out to see what was so urgent that Washie kept calling the junior to fetch things. Bill pursed his lips and peered at the Assistant Chief's office. It was chilly, and Dr. Morgan had sat in there for hours, reading and correcting departmental documentation with singular focus. He didn't look up when Blake and Hops left.

Not for the first time, Bill wondered at Morgan's unconcern at where his coworkers spent their day. It was one thing to not stand on ceremony, and of course, Nina would never go away until she was well and truly done, and Greg was often called to actually repair something in other parts of the building... But still, how could the Assistant Chief even learn they could be trusted if he never mingled with the poor mortals?

'Lucas,' Bill whispered. 'Invite Dr. Morgan for a cuppa, will you?'

'He won't listen to me,' Lucas whispered back. And sneezed.

'All right, I'll go myself.' He set a timer on his cellphone, just in case they missed Nina's, and went to knock at the glass door.

'Come in,' Morgan said breezily, putting a finger on a line he was at.

'Ah, I'd rather you come out, Sir,' said Bill, smiling. 'We're having tea.'

'Tea?'

'With crackers.'

Morgan tapped on the paper, but the novelty of being addressed, unprompted, by the team's least talkative member (Bill knew his own limits) made him hesitate in his refusal.

'And milk!' Lucas put in from behind. 'ACHOO!'

'You, Mr. Wahl, are having a cold,' Dr. Morgan corrected him, and Bill could have sworn that he glanced at Lucas's neck, but why would a mortician have the 'check the glands' down to a reflex?..

Unexpectedly, the Assistant Chief stood up.

'I may have some honey, to go with your tea.'


End file.
